


Home Front

by Hummingbird1759



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Child Death, Family, Family Feels, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29690676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hummingbird1759/pseuds/Hummingbird1759
Summary: Series of interconnected-ish one-shots about what the families of the crew do while Voyager is in the Delta Quadrant.
Comments: 49
Kudos: 35





	1. The Realization

Admiral Owen Paris is in his office reading a report on the latest warp drive improvements when his assistant comms him. “Admiral, you have a Priority One message from Deep Space Nine.”

“Thanks, Tim. Put it through.” Owen says, and lays his PADD on the desk.

“Good morning, Admiral Paris,” Benjamin Sisko begins.

“Commander Sisko! Is everything all right?”

Unblinking, Sisko says, “I’m afraid not, sir. You’re aware that _Voyager_ was supposed to report back with the Maquis two weeks ago; unfortunately, they have yet to return to the station. We’re unable to hail them, no distress calls have come in, and nothing has come up on long-range sensors. A Bajoran freighter returned from The Badlands yesterday but they didn’t see any sign of _Voyager_ or the Maquis ship.”

Admiral Paris nods. “I see. Thank you for telling me, Commander; we’ll organize a search party at once.”

“Deep Space Nine is at your disposal, Admiral. Let us know if you need anything,” Sisko states. His expression softens as he adds, “I’m sorry, sir. I know your son was on _Voyager_.”

The admiral’s poise flickers, but he replies optimistically, “Thank you, Commander, but she’s not lost yet. Keep scanning; I’m sure she’ll turn up. Paris out.”

Paris spends the rest of the day in crisis mode. The _Komarov_ , the _McCool_ and the _Cochrane_ are the closest ships; he calls their captains and gives them each a heading. Next, to notify the families; better they should hear the news from him than from the media. He begins with Gretchen Janeway and works his way down the list. When at last he finishes, the sun has gone down.

That night, Owen Paris will sit on the couch, drinking whiskey in deafening silence. Across town, his wife and daughters will alternate between crying and screaming.

One hundred forty-nine other families will pace the floors, pray, and hope.

Benjamin Sisko will return to his quarters and hug his son harder than he has since Wolf 359.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ships Owen sends to look for Voyager are named after Vladimir Komarov, the first Soviet cosmonaut killed in the line of duty; Willie McCool, one of the astronauts killed on the space shuttle _Columbia_ ; and of course, Zefram Cochrane.


	2. Denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Child death, at least as far as Mr. and Mrs. Kim know.

It’s the night before First Contact Day, and in the eight months since _Voyager_ disappeared, John Kim has tried to avoid discussing Harry as much as possible. His only son, twenty-two years old, born after a heartbreaking struggle with infertility, gifted musician, Starfleet Academy valedictorian, light of his parents’ lives, has vanished on his first trip to space. “Unfair” doesn’t even begin to describe the situation. 

He walks into the house after a long day at work and immediately he smells it.

Pecan pie.

Harry’s favorite.

_How could she?!?_

He enters the kitchen and groans, “Mary… what are you doing?”

“It’s First Contact Day tomorrow, and we always have pecan pie,” she says matter-of-factly. With a cheerfulness that rubs John like steel wool, she adds, “What if Harry comes back and there’s no pecan pie? He’ll be so disappointed!”

He rubs the bridge of his nose and laments, “Honey… you know he won’t…”

She shouts, “They’ll find _Voyager_ , and Harry will come home!”

Sometimes, John allows her to have her illusions. But this time, he can’t. He has spent the entire day trying to ignore his coworkers discussing their family celebrations, trying to pretend that he was fine, that it didn’t matter that Harry was gone and they likely would never know what happened to him. This time, he has to let out the scream that’s been percolating inside him all day.

He bellows, “Just. Stop. He won’t be back. Ever! You **know** that!”

Mary gapes at him, tears welling up. 

“I’m going for a walk,” he growls, and stomps out, slamming the door behind him. 

Two hours later, he returns with tired eyes and sagging shoulders. Mary sits at the kitchen table, listlessly picking at her pie. _I lost Harry. I can’t lose her too._

He tentatively sits down next to her. “Hi,” he begins. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

She sighs, “I’m sorry too. Sometimes I forget that you don’t like to talk about... everything.” She waves her hand vaguely.

He takes her hand and gently says, “You were right. He would be disappointed if he came home and couldn’t have your pecan pie.”

She lets out a long exhale. “When he comes back, I’ll make another one.”

_If_ , John thinks, but can’t force himself to say it.

They’re both quiet for a moment, and then he murmurs, “We knew this could happen. We knew that when he joined Starfleet, he could leave for a mission and never come back.”

She nods and replies softly, “Yes. But I never thought it’d happen on his first mission.”

“Neither did I.”

She whispers, “Neither did he. Was he scared? Did he ask for me before... ”

He sighs morosely and wraps his arm around her. “If the ship blew up, he may not have even had time to react.”

“Maybe it didn’t.”

He half-shrugs. “Maybe it didn’t.” _Space is a big place with a lot of ways to die…_

The two of them embrace as the fireworks begin outside. When the display ends, they are still clinging to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters are named after Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ Five Stages of Grief – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance – but they won’t be in that order.


	3. Bargaining

“Admiral, you can’t just give up on them!” Gretchen Janeway barks. 

Admiral Alynna Nechayev shoots back, “Dr. Janeway, for the last fourteen months we’ve scoured The Badlands with a fine-tooth comb and found nothing. No trace of them or the Maquis ship. After so much fruitless searching, we have to accept that Starfleet’s time is better spent elsewhere.”

Owen Paris’ shoulders tense up. He’s known these two women for over twenty years, and while they may look like porcelain dolls, they have the souls of apex predators. To be honest, he’s a little intimidated by both of them; watching them go toe-to-toe makes him want to find a bomb shelter.

Janeway protests, “Then search somewhere else! Starships don’t just disappear! They have to have left an ion trail, or magnetic resonance or…”

_Or debris_ , Owen thinks, but he refuses to entertain that thought.

Nechayev snaps, “You really think we haven’t thought of that? We’ve tried every sensor technology we have, sent multiple search and rescue missions, scanned every possible communications frequency, sent out probes, left buoys… nothing. We’ve even considered asking the Cardassians for help, but I think everyone in this room understands why that’s a bad idea.”

Owen involuntarily shudders at the mention of the Cardassians. Nechayev had approached him with that option a month ago; he’d emphatically told her that Kathryn Janeway had been captured by Cardassians once and would rather die than allow her crew to suffer that fate. Even if the Cardies claimed to have good intentions, she’d never believe them. He glances over at Gretchen Janeway and can see that she agrees.

Gretchen pleads, “There’s got to be some other option!”

Nechayev folds her arms, and she looks like she’s going to deliver a remark that will cut Janeway in two. Owen braces himself for the impact; this is about to get ugly. He watches the women glower at each other for a long moment, and then Nechayev does something that shocks him.

She walks out from behind her desk and gently places her hands on Gretchen Janeway’s shoulders. In a tone more befitting a grandmother than a Starfleet admiral, Alynna says, “Gretchen, I am so sorry. Your family has already sacrificed more than most for Starfleet, and now sacrifice is being forced on you again. Kathryn Janeway was a fine officer and an asset to the Fleet. I’m sorry we couldn’t bring her home.”

Gretchen, momentarily lost for words, murmurs, “Thank you.”

Nechayev puts her hands down and turns so that she’s facing Owen as well. Despite her legendary composure, he can see the sadness in her eyes. “I’m sorry we couldn’t bring Tom home, Owen. I wish we could do more but The Badlands are growing more unstable; the latest sensor buoy recorded a Class 5 plasma storm before it was destroyed, and Astrometrics predicts that the storms are only going to get worse. If we send more ships, we risk losing them too.”

Owen nods solemnly. “The last thing I want is for any more ships to be lost.”

“No. No one wants that,” Gretchen whispers.

They leave Nechayev’s office with the usual platitudes about keeping in touch, will let you know as soon as new developments occur. When they’re in the turbolift heading down, Gretchen sighs, “At least we got a little compassion out of Nechayev. I never thought I’d see that.”

Owen shakes his head fondly. “I didn’t either, but I should have. Nechayev is all Fleet; there’s no one she respects more than the family of an officer killed in the line of duty.”

Gretchen’s fists clench, and Owen briefly thinks she’s going to hit him. Instead, her glare pins him to the wall and she growls, “Katie and Tom aren’t dead.”

“Computer, halt turbolift.” Owen returns the intensity in Gretchen’s eyes and says, “I know they’re not. If anyone could get _Voyager_ out of whatever predicament she’s gotten into, it’s our kids. They’ll come back – and I’ll do whatever I can to help them.”

In a steely tone, Gretchen tells him, “You’d better.”

Unflinching, Owen claps back, “Don’t forget who stayed by Kathryn’s side in that Cardassian prison.”


	4. Acceptance

Inaction did not suit Gretchen Janeway. As a child and teenager, she signed up for the most difficult classes and participated in as many sports and clubs as she could. In university, she maintained stellar grades while assisting in the medicinal chemistry lab, tutoring other students, and running ten kilometers every other day. Now retired, she still kept up with medicinal chemistry research while maintaining a large kitchen garden, helping her daughter Phoebe with her yarn business, and running ten kilometers every other day.

Gretchen, along with Owen Paris, had spearheaded the efforts to find _Voyager_ after she disappeared. When Admiral Nechayev had told her that Starfleet could no longer continue the search and _Voyager_ was officially lost, instead of falling into a deep depression, Gretchen flew into a rage. After a week of stomping around like a T-Rex on steroids and scaring the holy bejesus out of everyone within half a kilometer, she had an idea.

 _Phoebe, Mark, and I are hurting. Owen, Julia, and their girls are hurting. There were 148 other people on_ Voyager _, and they all have at least one person back home who misses them. Maybe this will get easier if we can all hurt together._

After obtaining their contact information from Owen, Gretchen sets up a messaging list and sends the following invitation to the family members of _Voyager’s_ crew:

_Hello everyone,_

_My name is Gretchen Janeway, and I’m the mother of Voyager’s captain, Kathryn Janeway. If you’re receiving this message, someone you love is on Voyager. I know the last fourteen months have been difficult, to say the least, for all of us. However, I think our burdens might become a little lighter if we can try carrying them together. If you’re interested in a support group, reply to this message, and I’ll send you the details for our private messaging group._

The replies came swiftly and in droves.

_To: Gretchen Janeway_  
_From: Mary Kim_  
_This is a wonderful idea. My husband isn’t much of a talker, but I could use an outlet. -Mary Kim, mother of Operations Officer Harry Kim._

_To: Gretchen Janeway_  
_From: Cindy Cavit_  
_Thank you, Gretchen. I can see where your daughter got her leadership skills. I’m in._

_To: Gretchen Janeway_  
_From: Julia Paris_  
_You know Owen and I are for it. We both need someone to talk to besides each other. Kathleen and Moira would like to participate too._

_To: Gretchen Janeway_  
_From: T’Pel_  
_Vulcans do not enjoy discussing emotions, however, logically, regular contact with other families would be an efficient way to obtain news of_ Voyager _when it is available. Please include me._

_To: Gretchen Janeway_  
_From: Riasa and Clint Stadi_  
_Having someone to commiserate with has always been useful to us. We’d love to join, and as a daughter of the Fourth House of Betazed I’m happy to offer any assistance I can._

_To: Gretchen Janeway_  
_From: Greskrendtregk_  
_You have no idea how badly I need this. Sam is my soul mate. Count me in._

Six months after Gretchen starts the group, they are finally able to have an in-person meeting. She looks around the room and sees the Kims chatting with the Stadis, Phoebe talking with Moira Paris, Julia Paris hugging Greskrendtregk, T’Pel and Cindy Cavit playing _Kal-toh_ , and Owen Paris having a quiet drink with Mark Johnson, Katie’s fiancé. 

Gretchen smiles to herself. _Katie will get the crew home. My job is to make sure they have a home to return to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alert readers will notice that I’ve left out the families of the Maquis; Starfleet doesn’t yet know that the Maquis are all on _Voyager_ , so no one has considered contacting them. 
> 
> In addition to the families of Harry, Tom, Janeway, Tuvok, and Sam Wildman, I’ve included family members of Veronica Stadi and First Officer Cavit, both of whom are killed in Caretaker. This way lies angst…


	5. Depression

Mark Johnson awakens with puffy eyes, a dry mouth, and a splitting headache. _What day is it?_ He rolls over and looks at the PADD on his nightstand: Saturday, August 3rd, 2373. As of today, _Voyager_ has been missing for two years.

Mark flops onto his back. Two years without Kat. Two years of no answers. Two years of too much drink and not enough exercise, of sleepless nights and endless days. Two years of dashed hopes and cancelled plans. Two years of going through the motions, of keeping up the sham of being a functional human. One year of pretending that he was fine, that he’d filled his grief quota and couldn’t possibly be sad anymore.

His thoughts are interrupted by plaintive whimpering and a cold nose on his face. “All right, Mollie,” he groans. He pads over to the back door, lets the dog out, takes a detox hypospray, and faceplants back in bed. Five minutes later, Mollie is pleading to be let in again. Mark grunts something that resembles a curse into his pillow, then drags himself out of bed to let her in. _Fine! I’m up!_

He checks his messages – Gretchen and Phoebe Janeway, both probably wondering how he is. His cousin, probably with similar sentiments. He’ll call them back later… maybe _. I haven’t exactly been feeling social this year._

Glancing up from his desk, he sees the holophoto of himself, Kat, and Mollie taken just before Kat left for Deep Space Nine. He wants to jump back in time, beg and plead with Kat not to go, and then he shakes his head.

_If you told her what would happen, that would only make her more determined to go. She’d have it in her head that she could save the ship somehow, be a hero. Or that if she couldn’t save the ship, she’d at least prevent someone else from meeting a horrible fate. She would go, no matter what you did. She wanted the danger._

_She wanted to die in space._

The thought both astounds him and seems like the most obvious thing in the world. When one is engaged to a Starfleet officer, the topic of death inevitably comes up in discussions. When asked how he’d like to die, Mark had always quoted his favorite character from 21st century literature: “In my own bed, with a belly full of wine and a maiden's mouth around my cock,” which usually elicited either a playful punch or a hearty guffaw from Kat. But if you asked Kat that question, she’d always say in a jocular tone, “With my boots on.”

_I guess she got what she wanted._

He stares at the holophoto for a few minutes and then shakes his head vigorously. _I need to get out of here._ He hooks Mollie up to her leash and takes the rambunctious Irish setter for a walk in the park. He thinks of how Kat loved Mollie from the start, wanted her despite the fact that she was the runt of the litter. _“She has spunk,”_ Kat had told him. Kat was, as always, right – Mollie had grown up to be a fine dog, and one would never know she was a runt born in an animal shelter.

He thinks of how even when they were children, Kat never backed down from a challenge. She would race anyone, fight anyone, study harder than anyone, do whatever it took to win. But more than that, she was kind. Woe betide anyone who tried to bully another kid when Katie Janeway was on the playground. She had been good to their families, good to their animals… good to him.

A few months ago, a counselor had asked him: _What would she say if she were here now?_ Mark hadn’t been in the mood to discuss it back then, but he found himself asking that question today. _What would Kat say if she could see me now?_

_She would tell me to stop flagellating myself._

_She would tell me she had a good life and she didn’t regret anything._

_She would tell me to cherish our memories, but not to live in them._

_She would tell me that it’s okay to move on. That it will be hard and frightening, but I don’t get to stop living just because she did. That life is a battle, and I’ve retreated too soon._

He sinks onto the grass in the park and looks up at the brilliant summer sky. _I’m sorry, Kat. From now on, I’ll try to make you proud._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mark’s answer for how he’d like to die is shamelessly stolen from – who else? – Tyrion Lannister from _A Song of Ice and Fire._


	6. Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for child death, at least as far as the Parises know.
> 
> My headcanon is that Tom Paris was born in spring or early summer 2345, putting this chapter a month or two before the events of “Message in a Bottle.”

On what would have been her son’s twenty-ninth birthday, Julia Paris is in the vegetable garden pulling weeds like a woman possessed. She’s already cleaned the house from top to bottom, finished her latest editing job, replied to dozens of comms and letters, gone for a long bike ride, and now she’s weeding. She hates weeding, but it gets her mind off of Tom. _And me away from Owen._

Late that afternoon, she’s tugging on a particularly stubborn yellow nutsedge and doesn’t notice her husband approaching the garden. _Lousy weeds, choking out my tomatoes…_

Tentatively, he asks, “Jules… honey, why don’t you come in? It’s getting late.”

Her head whips up to see Owen standing over her, in his Starfleet uniform as always, and her vision goes red. “No,” she snarls, continuing to fight the loathsome plant.

Owen attempts, “Julia… I know it’s rough today-“

She drops the weed and bolts up to look him in the eyes. “Do you? Do you really? 

He murmurs, “He’s my son too, Julia.”

Julia spits, “Your son or your trophy? It seems to me that you cared more about the Paris name than the people who carried it!”

He protests, “That’s not true!” 

She rages, “It _is_ true! You only ever paid attention to the boy when you were yelling at him about how much he disappointed you! Where were you when he had a broken heart? Telling him to stop crying! When he studied his hardest and got a B, what did you do? Tell him it should’ve been an A! When the girls wouldn’t join Starfleet, you barely spoke to them for a year afterwards, and then you practically forced Tom to join!”

Owen stares at her, openmouthed.

Julia puts her hands on her hips, heedless of the dirt she’s getting all over herself. “Well?”

Owen stammers, “I… uh…”

“That’s what I thought,” she says coldly. “Go back inside and let me finish. Save the crocodile tears about Tom for your admiral friends; maybe you can fool them.”

He recoils as if he’s been slapped and then slinks back inside dejectedly. Julia continues yanking at the vile weed until she finally rips it out of the ground with a satisfying pop. Noticing that the sun is almost down, she returns to the house for a shower. As she scrubs off the dirt and sweat of the day, the tears finally come, and she leans against the shower wall and sobs. _If we’d been better parents… if he hadn’t made that mistake at Caldik Prime… if Katie Janeway hadn’t taken pity on him… if_ Voyager _had gone on a different mission or left on a different day…_

When she’s cried herself out, Julia puts on her pajamas and heads downstairs. She sees Owen in his civilian clothes, sitting on the couch with a glass of whiskey and staring into the darkness with a melancholy expression. She fetches a glass of wine and goes to join him. His eyes are brimming when she sits down.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, and she understands that he isn’t just referring to their fight.

“I know.” She laces her fingers through his. After a beat, she tells him, “I shouldn’t have said that, about the crocodile tears. I know you love the kids.”

He nods, swirling his whiskey. “I was never very good at showing it.”

Remembering one of their counseling sessions, she offers, “It’s hard to get good at something you were never taught.”

“I picked up a few things from you. Should’ve paid more attention,” he mutters with a shake of his head.

Julia sighs in resignation. “You did the best you could with the tools you had.” _I never understood what “generational trauma” meant until I married into this family._

In a determined tone, he tells her, “I haven’t given up on _Voyager_. I’m still doing whatever I can to find out what happened to them and bring them back.”

“Honey… you can’t keep doing this to yourself.” She swallows hard, “You know they’re gone.”

Tears leaking from his eyes, he whispers, “Jules, I have to believe he’s still out there. I can’t accept the fact that I’ll never get to tell him all the things he needs to hear.” 

Some nights, she rips open the wound, but tonight, it seems Owen is doing that for her. Tonight, she leans her head onto his shoulder and murmurs, “Maybe you will.”


	7. The Bombshell

Late one summer afternoon, Gretchen and Phoebe Janeway are at the Janeway family homestead hand dyeing their latest batch of fingering weight yarn - it’s an ombré that starts out crimson, transitions into a brilliant orange, then ends with a dazzling yellow. The two women have been working with lilting Irish music playing in the background, focused on the task rather than conversation.

Gretchen finishes the skein she’s working on and turns to her younger daughter. “This is turning out lovely, dear. You always had an amazing eye for color.”

“Thanks, Mom. I guess this as close as you’ll get to a chemist in the family,” she says in a self-deprecating tone.

“So, what are you going to call this one?”

Phoebe puts down her bottle of dye and whispers, “Goldenbird.”

Gretchen’s eyes water. Goldenbird. Her long-ago nickname for Kathryn. “I thought you’d forgotten.”

“About my sister?!?” She demands, blue eyes flashing and dark hair on the verge of escaping the bandana she’s tied over it.

“No, no! I meant the nickname,” Gretchen assures her. “Katie wouldn’t answer to it after she turned eight. You were only four; I didn’t think you remembered that far back.”

Phoebe smiles mischievously. “She hated it after she turned eight, and that’s why I called her Goldenbird until she was sixteen.”

“Phoebe!” Gretchen admonishes. “No wonder you two fought like cats and dogs, you antagonizing her that way!”

“Well, she always called me Bigfoot!” Phoebe says in mock outrage. Kathryn was petite like Gretchen, but Phoebe inherited her height from their father; by the time she was twelve, she was taller than Kathryn, a fact that caused the elder sister no end of consternation.

Gretchen rolls her eyes and chuckles fondly. “She started calling me Silverbird after my hair went gray. I don’t think she ever realized that I actually like it.”

Both women look at the floor for a moment, silently wishing Kathryn were here to antagonize them now. Then Phoebe makes an overly enthusiastic comment about needing to get back to work because these skeins won’t dye themselves. Gretchen smiles quietly to herself; her girls are a lot more alike than either of them would care to admit.

Gretchen complies with Phoebe’s direction, and the two of them work quietly for the next ten minutes when Gretchen’s comm terminal rings. Normally, she’d ignore it, but this ringtone is oddly urgent, so she washes the miasma of goo off of her hands and walks over to the terminal. Her eyes go wide when she sees it’s a Priority One message from Starfleet Command. _What the… oh, no._ Heart slam-dancing with her ribcage and stomach lurching, she shouts, “Phoebe! Starfleet’s calling!”

“WHAT?!?” Phoebe yelps. She charges into the kitchen and slides into the chair next to her mother as if she were trying to steal third base.

Owen Paris’ face appears on the screen and he… wait, he looks happy? “Gretchen! Phoebe! I’m so glad I could catch you both. Do you still have that transporter station in Eddie’s old office?”

Gretchen gives him a quizzical look. “Yes. What’s this all about, Owen?”

Owen shakes his head. “It’ll take too long to explain. The two of you just need to get over here. I’m sending the coordinates now.”

Gretchen replies, “All right, Owen, we’ll be right there. Janeways out.”

The Janeway women beam into Owen’s office at Starfleet Command. Owen and a few Starfleet officers who Gretchen doesn’t recognize are standing in front of the viewscreen, which has an image of a balding, middle-aged man in a blue Starfleet uniform.

The man says, “Ah! You must be the captain’s mother and sister! I see the resemblance.”

Phoebe and Gretchen give each other shocked looks. In unison, they squeal, “You’re from _Voyager_?!?”

Owen cuts in, “Doctor, I think you’d better take it from the top.”

The man replies in a matter-of-fact tone, “ _Voyager_ is in the Delta Quadrant, approximately sixty thousand light years from Earth. The crew was able to send me, their Emergency Medical Hologram, through a network of relay stations to the _Prometheus_ , which is currently at the edge of the Alpha Quadrant.”

Gretchen murmurs, “So is Kathryn…?”

“Alive?” The EMH asks. “Yes, very much so. She won’t say it, but I know she misses the both of you.”

“We miss her too,” Phoebe says, tears dribbling down her cheeks.

Gretchen casts a worried look at Owen. “And Tom…?”

The EMH huffs disgruntledly. “Tom Paris is also alive and well, although his skills as a medic leave much to be desired.”

Owen smiles at this. “I’m not surprised. Flying is his one true love; everything else is secondary at best.”

The EMH gives a brief synopsis of _Voyager’s_ three years in the Delta Quadrant and it all sounds like something out of a fantasy story – aliens that steal organs, time paradoxes, a living nebula, a 200-year-old warlord that possessed a member of the crew, a planet full of women that duped a crewman into believing he was one of them, an alliance with the Borg, a telepath that flung them 9500 light years closer to home. After he finishes his tale, he says, “I’m sending over some of _Voyager’s_ logs, as well as photos and videos of the crew. The crew has developed a mobile emitter for me, which means I’ve been able to move about the ship freely and take photos of the crew while going about their days.”

Owen nods gratefully. “Thank you, Doctor; I know the families will appreciate them. I’ll give the news to the families as soon as possible. Tell the crew that we will do everything we can to get them home.”

“And tell them they’re not alone anymore!” Phoebe blurts. 

Gretchen moves to shush her, but Owen waves her off. “No. They’re no longer alone.”

After the transmission ends, Owen picks up a PADD with the data the EMH sent. His expression slowly darkens as he scans through it. In a stern tone, he tells them, “Gretchen, Phoebe, neither of you can speak about this to _anyone_ until I give the all-clear. **Not one word.** Understood?”

Gretchen nods; she was a Starfleet officer’s wife long enough to know what Owen has to do next. Phoebe looks puzzled, but the light slowly dawns on her and she murmurs, “How many?”

“Seventeen,” Owen replies grimly. “I’ll let you know when I’m finished.”

Gretchen gives him a gentle hug and says, “All right, Owen. Thank you.”

Phoebe hugs Owen as well, and then the Janeways beam back to Indiana. Owen sits down at his desk to start the task every Starfleet officer dreads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those keeping score at home, I mention in the next chapter that a dozen crewmembers were killed by the displacement wave. Seventeen is the total number of crew killed since they’ve been in the Delta Quadrant.


	8. Bad News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Child death, for real this time.

On Betazed, the Stadis receive a subspace message from Starfleet Command. Riasa knew there was only one reason they’d get a message from Command. _They found her! They found Veronica!_

She calls out, “Clint! Come quick, it’s the admiral!”

Her husband scuttles in and sits down next to her, and she presses Accept Message.

Owen Paris appears on the screen, and Riasa fleetingly wonders why he looks so gloomy. “Good afternoon, Riasa, Clint. I’m calling because I have news about _Voyager_.”

“We suspected as much,” Riasa says with a smile, giving Clint a look that says, _‘I told you so.’_

Owen glances down at his desk, then takes a deep breath. “Yes. I’m afraid it’s bad news.” 

Riasa and Clint exchange glances. _Bad news? What does that mean?_

He bites his lip and then continues, “When _Voyager_ disappeared three years ago, a polarized magnetic displacement wave carried her seventy thousand light years away, to the Delta Quadrant. The displacement wave caused significant damage to the ship and killed a dozen of the crew… including Veronica. I’m so sorry.”

Riasa stammers, “But… how is that possible?”

Owen lets out a long exhale. “To be honest, I’m not sure. They weren’t able to send us all of their data, and what they did send was vague – evidently the crew couldn’t detect the displacement wave until it was practically on top of them.”

“Must have been Tom at the helm,” Riasa spits. “Veronica would have been able to outrun it or outmaneuver it-“

“Honey-“ Clint interjects, but Riasa cuts him off.

“I suppose now you’ll tell me that your worthless felon survived and our-“

“Riasa, not now!” Clint begs.

Owen’s fists tighten under his desk, but his face remains calm. “I think I should give you two some time,” he says evenly. “I’ll send a Starfleet counselor by in a few days. Once again, my condolences.”

After he hangs up, he looks at the photo of Tom on his desk. _Not worthless. Even if you were at the helm then._ Owen shakes his head to clear his mind and moves on to the next death notification. He cannot hear Riasa’s keening wail for their Little Bunny or Clint’s racking sobs; not when he has sixteen more of these calls to make.

* * *

Cindy Cavit sits on her living room couch staring into space with a morose expression. She absently twists her wedding ring, still unfamiliar after three months.

Her seventeen-year-old daughter, Jessica, barges in from track practice, long limbs tanned by the east Texas sun and curly hair threatening to take over the world. She hollers, “Mom! I’m home!”

“Right here, honey. No need to yell,” Cindy murmurs.

“Sorry, Mom. Didn’t see you.” Jessica pauses and looks over at her mother. “Mom? Are you okay?”

“No,” Cindy manages. “Go take a shower; I’ll explain when you get out.”

Jessica complies, and returns twenty minutes later in a fresh T-shirt and shorts, ringlets damp. “What’s going on, Mom?”

“While you were out, Admiral Paris called. They heard from _Voyager_.”

Jessica gasps, “What?!? They’re alive?”

“Not all of them,” Cindy says softly. “They were hit with some kind of displacement wave that sent them to the Delta Quadrant. The wave did a lot of damage to the ship and killed twelve of the crew… including your dad.”

Tears spring to Jessica’s eyes. “So he really is gone.”

“Yeah. I was expecting this but…”

“It still sucks,” Jessica said through tears.

The two women hug and sob for what seems like an age. When they pull apart, Jessica murmurs, “Mom… when Dad… did it hurt?”

Cindy shakes her head. “No. The admiral said that your dad barely even knew what hit him.”

After a long pause, Jessica asks again, “Are you all right, Mom?”

“I’m not sure,” Cindy admits. “I thought he’d tell me that your father was still alive and I’ve effectively been cheating on him… and I feel terrible for being relieved that I’m not.” After a beat, she asks, “What about you? Are you okay?”

“No. I knew Dad was dead but… right up until you said it, I hoped that maybe he was still alive,” Jessica says through fresh tears.

Cindy smiles feebly. “I hoped the same thing, for your sake.”

The two remain silent for a long while and then Cindy gets an idea. “You know, Richard won’t be back from Jupiter Station until Sunday night; how about on Saturday, we go fishing and then get ice cream, like we always used to do with Dad?”

“Yeah. That’s a great idea,” Jessica replies quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me, everyone. We have officially reached Angst Nadir; from now on, things start getting happier.


	9. Good News, Part 1

On Trebus, Sekaya wakes up to the sound of her seldom-used subspace messaging terminal ringing. She’d originally obtained it when Chakotay joined Starfleet; it was nice to have a way to keep in touch with him when he was on missions. After he joined the Maquis, he still messaged her erratically, but he hadn’t done so for years now. Rumors were that his ship had disappeared, or that he’d been captured by either the Cardassians or the Federation, but she knows that the most likely scenario was that he’d been killed when the Maquis were wiped out. Given that his other options are rotting in a Federation prison or being tortured to death by Cardassians, she hopes he’s deceased.

She goes to the terminal and finds the message is from Starfleet Command. _What could they possibly want with me? I was never Maquis, and all the Maquis I knew are either dead or in prison._

Curiosity piqued, she hits Accept Message and sees the face of a Starfleet admiral with thinning white hair. “Good morning, Ms. Sekaya. I’m sorry to disturb you; my name is Admiral Owen Paris and I’m calling about your brother, Chakotay.”

Sekaya blinks in confusion. “Mr. Admiral… I have no idea where Chakotay is. I haven’t seen or heard from him in years.”

The admiral smiles, and it’s a genuinely happy expression. “I’m aware, ma’am, that’s why I’m calling. We’ve found him.”

She screeches, “WHAT?!?”

The admiral explains, “Four years ago, the Federation starship _Voyager_ was sent to apprehend your brother’s ship, the _Val Jean_. Both ships disappeared without a trace. This week, we found out that _Voyager_ – along with your brother and his crew – is in the Delta Quadrant, sixty thousand light years away. Chakotay is alive and well.”

Sekaya’s heart pounds. _Alive and well… but on a Starfleet_ _ship._ She demands, “So, what, he’s in the brig?”

The admiral, still grinning broadly, replies, “No, ma’am! _Voyager’s_ captain integrated the Maquis with the Starfleet crew. Chakotay is serving as her first officer, and from what we’ve been told, is well respected by the entire crew – Maquis and Starfleet alike.”

Sekaya lets out an exhale, and then her eyes widen as the rest of the admiral’s message sinks in. “Sixty thousand light years away? They’ll never get home!”

The admiral’s face fades slightly. “I know how it sounds. My son is on that ship.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sekaya replies softly.

Owen continues, “We’re doing everything we can to get them home, but in the meantime, we’ve found a way to send letters to the crew. If you’d like to send a letter to Chakotay, you’re welcome to do so.”

Sekaya’s heart leaps. “I… yes. Yes, I’d love to!”

“Good. I’m sending you the address now. We may only have one chance to send letters, so have yours ready in 48 hours.”

“I understand.”

“Also, Gretchen Janeway – the captain’s mother – runs a support group for families of _Voyager’s_ crew. If you’d like to join, I can pass on your contact information. Since the crew is roughly one-third ex-Maquis, you’d be far from the only one.”

“Yes. That would be nice,” Sekaya smiles. 

Sekaya spends the rest of the day in a joyful daze. _My brother is alive! I may never see him again, but he’s alive and I can tell him I love him. What a blessing!_

* * *

In Amsterdam, Gres’s subspace messaging station rings. As soon as he sees the caller ID, his stomach flip-flops. _Starfleet Command… oh no. This is never a good sign._ Hands trembling, he taps Accept Message and finds himself face-to-face with a grinning Owen Paris.

He exclaims, “Admiral! This is a surprise!”

“Gres, I have good news,” the jubilant admiral tells him. “We’ve heard from _Voyager_. It’s a long story, but they’re in the Delta Quadrant. They sent their EMH through a relay and onto a Starfleet ship, and the EMH was able to give us some information about the _Voyager_ crew. Samantha is alive.”

“S-she’s all right?” Gres gapes.

Owen nods, still smiling from ear to ear, and says, “Yes. Better than all right, actually. She didn’t know it then, but Samantha was pregnant when _Voyager_ left Deep Space Nine. Several months after _Voyager_ went to the Delta Quadrant, she had a baby girl – Naomi.”

Wide-eyed, he murmurs, “I’m a father?”

“Yes. Congratulations,” Owen replies gently, “And the EMH gave us some photos and videos of your daughter. I’m sending them over now.”

Gres takes in the sight of the photos like a desert wanderer at an oasis. The first photo must be the day Naomi was born – Sam in sickbay, holding a tiny infant with Ktarian horns. Sam looks tired but overjoyed.

The second photo is a Korean ensign playing peek-a-boo with Naomi, who appears to be about six months old. Naomi’s face is gleeful and she claps her chubby hands. “That’s Harry Kim, the operations officer,” Owen explains. “He’s taken a real shine to her.”

The next image was taken in someone’s quarters. A woman with reddish-gold hair sits on a couch, reading to baby Naomi from a PADD. Naomi, snuggled on the woman’s lap, looks at the PADD wide-eyed. The woman has a doting smile, and Gres realizes with a start that there are four pips on her collar. 

“The captain?” Gres says incredulously.

“Yes,” Owen chuckles. “It seems your little Naomi is quite a charmer.”

Next is a video, taken in _Voyager’s_ mess hall. One-year-old Naomi is standing up, and a petite woman with blond hair holds both of her hands. Sam is crouched a few meters away, coaxing, “Walk to Mommy, sweetie!” Naomi takes a few unsteady steps, and the blond woman gradually lets go of her hands. The little girl independently toddles over to Sam, who encircles her in a hug and cheers about how proud she is.

Another photo, taken in one of the corridors on _Voyager_. Toddler Naomi perches on the shoulders of a blond man and has her palms planted on the ceiling. She’s grinning broadly, dimples in her cheeks and eyes shining. The man has a gentle but firm grip on Naomi and a familiar smile on his face.

“If you don’t mind, Gres, I made a copy of this one,” Owen says tenderly. “That’s my son, Tom.”

“Of course, sir,” Gres manages, and it’s only now that he realizes he has tears running down his cheeks. Wiping them off, he continues, “I’m sorry, sir, I-“

Owen regards him kindly, and if Gres didn’t know better, he’d think the admiral was choked up too. “It’s all right, son. It’s an emotional day for everyone. I’ll let you go through the rest of the photos – there are at least a dozen of them – on your own. As you can imagine, I have quite a few calls to make today.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Also, we found a way to send letters to the _Voyager_ crew; I’m giving you information on where to direct yours. We’ll need it in the next 48 hours if it’s going to go out with the first batch.”

“Understood, sir. Thank you,” Gres says, heart swelling with pride.

Owen ends the transmission and turns to his list of family notifications. _Twenty down, more to go if they can find the rest of the Maquis’ families…_


	10. Good News, Part 2

Mary Kim had always been an early riser. Ever since childhood, she was the first one out of bed every morning and usually in a good mood when she got up. Her parents didn’t mind as long as she stayed out of trouble, her siblings found it annoying, her college roommates had found it intolerable, but John found it endearing, provided she let him sleep. _I suppose that’s why I married him._

As she had done every morning for the last three years, she poured herself a cup of coffee and check the _Voyager_ family message board. They’d found out yesterday that _Voyager_ was in the Delta Quadrant and that Harry was okay; Mary expected there’d be a surge of discussion today amongst all the families that had received good news. She still wanted to pinch herself, worried that she might have dreamed the call from Admiral Paris.

At the top of the main forum was a pinned post from Julia Paris; Mary eagerly opened it up and couldn’t believe what she saw.

_Hello everyone! Owen asked me to post this for him; as you can imagine, he’s had quite a day. Voyager’s EMH was able to send along roughly two hundred photos and videos of the crew. Since the EMH has a mobile emitter, he’s been able to go all over the ship and record them not just working but relaxing as well. The little girl in the photos is Naomi Wildman, daughter of Gres and Sam – everybody say congrats! I’m told that the alien with the spots is named Neelix and the blond alien is Kes; they joined the crew after they arrived in the Delta Quadrant. The woman with Borg implants is Seven of Nine – a human rescued from the collective._

Mary gapes. _Photos of Harry?!?_ She plunks her coffee down on the table, then dashes into the bedroom and shakes her husband’s shoulder. “John, wake up!”

Voice rough with sleep, John groans, “Mar, it’s Saturday.”

“John, this is important! Starfleet sent photos of Harry!”

“What? Really?”

“Really really,” she says in the way they always used to do with Harry. 

John bolts out of bed, fetches a cup of coffee, and the two of them sit down at the kitchen table with a PADD and begin scrolling. There’s Harry at the Ops station, looking every bit the officer. Harry on what must be the holodeck, playing pool with Tom Paris – Mary recognizes him from Julia’s photos. Harry and a half-Klingon woman, tinkering with the plasma conduits; they’re both smiling as if they’ve just made an inside joke. Harry and Tom in the mess hall, laughing over a plate of unidentifiable blue food. Another one in the mess hall, this one with Harry, Tom, and the remains of what looks like an enormous dinner, both looking exhausted but relieved.

Mary observes, “It seems like Harry and Tom Paris have become close.”

“That’s good to see,” John says, stroking Mary’s hand. “I worried he’d have a hard time fitting in.”

“I just hope Tom isn’t a bad influence on him,” she frets.

“Maybe he’ll be a good influence on Tom,” John suggests.

“Maybe,” she smiles.

* * *

It’s nearly midnight on Trebus, but Sekaya has no intention of going to bed. After more than four years without seeing Chakotay’s face, she can’t wait to look at all of the photos the EMH sent of him. The rest of the crew is unfamiliar to her – she and Chakotay decided she’d be safer if she didn’t know any of his Maquis cohorts.

She begins scrolling; there’s Chakotay on the Bridge, looking like a proud warrior. _He cut his hair… it looks nice on him._ No gray hair either, she noticed with a smile. _Dad was right - he really won’t ever grow up._ Chakotay and the captain in the mess hall, having a tête-à-tête over a cup of coffee. _You’d never guess she was supposed to have arrested him._

The next photo almost brings a tear to her eye: Chakotay giving Naomi a piggyback ride down the corridor, just like he always used to do with his nephews. _It’s too bad you don’t have kids of your own, Chakotay; you’d be a great father._

The following photos must be from the holodeck; it looks like a bar of some sort. Chakotay and one of the men – he has the look of a Maquis about him, but she can’t be sure - playing pool. _When did he learn to play?_ Chakotay playing pool with the captain, who has clearly just defeated him; he’s taking it in stride but also wishes he could beat her just once. _You always have to be the best, don’t you?_

More photos follow – working on the Bridge, parties on the holodeck, dinners in the mess hall. Sekaya notices that Chakotay always finds an excuse to stand by the captain; not just at her side, but as close as he can get. And the captain doesn’t seem to mind; she strikes Sekaya as someone who isn’t shy about setting boundaries. _Oh dear, little brother... you’ve got it bad. And she does too. Don’t do anything foolish._

* * *

Vulcans do not worry. Worrying is illogical and solves nothing. 

However, Vulcans do feel love, and they do miss their loved ones. Logically, it makes little sense not to feel the absence of one’s mate. After all, if one does not notice their mate’s absence, perhaps one should find a new mate.

T’Pel had not been worried about Tuvok, but she did miss him. Like the rest of the _Voyager_ families, she began scrolling through the EMH’s photos as soon as they were posted, although with a little more restraint than the others.

The first photo she sees is Tuvok in the mess hall, Neelix standing over him with a big grin. An outside observer might think Tuvok’s face was neutral, but T’Pel can see he was perturbed. She shakes her head. _Oh husband, you have so little patience sometimes._

Tuvok in the holodeck pool hall, observing as Janeway takes a cue. Having played pool with Janeway before, T’Pel has an idea of what happened next. She knows Tuvok wouldn’t lie to the crew about Janeway’s abilities, but nor would he volunteer the information without being asked. The following photo confirms her suspicions – the unlucky crewman playing against her looks bewildered. _The woman has quite a capacity for deception._

The next photo appears to be in Tuvok’s quarters; he’s reading to Sam and Gres’ daughter. Again, an outsider wouldn’t notice anything in Tuvok’s expression, but T’Pel knows he's fond of the little girl. _I wonder if he’s reading_ T’Pau For Children _; he always used to read that to our children when they were small._

 _Maybe someday, he’ll come home and read it to T’Meni._ The possibility is remote, but not completely unlikely. It is not illogical to hope.


End file.
